


you're gonna run your body right into the ground

by phae



Series: little red corvette [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Don't Touch Lola, M/M, Phil only trusts Lola with the very best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 04:03:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phae/pseuds/phae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil loves Lola, but he's no mechanic. He can't do much to help her when she's having a bad day; that's Clint's job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're gonna run your body right into the ground

**Author's Note:**

> I've been bitten by the Lola-bug. I'm afraid there's no help for me. Title is from Prince's _Little Red Corvette_. This takes place sometime after _you need a love that's gonna last_ , where Lola was a gift from Clint.

Clint has just fallen face-first onto his rumpled comforter, too lazy to straighten the bedding or grab his pillow from the floor before he lies down and messes it all up again, when his phone vibrates. Clint turns his head enough that he can eye the source of the buzzing on his bedside table, but he doesn’t bother reaching for it.

 

The only people he knows are SHIELD people, and no one there should even know that he’s back in the country, much less that his phone is back on for the first time in a month as per the black-out protocols of his deep cover mission abroad. Clint waits for the rattling to stop, then nuzzles his face back into his mattress.

 

Two minutes later, his phone buzzes again. Clint reaches down to the floor for his pillow and tosses it on top of his head to muffle the sounds. Another three minutes after that, the phone vibrates itself off the table and clatters to the floor. With a frustrated growl, Clint leans over the side of the bed to retrieve his phone with the express purpose of shutting the damn thing back off.

 

Whatever SHIELD wants can wait until he’s slept. And showered. And eaten his weight in bacon in the morning. But as Clint goes to press the power-down key, his eyes catch on the contact name displayed and he immediately rises from the bed to stand at attention, answering the phone with a worried, “Sir?” as his eyes scan the room to catalog where he’d tossed his gear in his exhausted haze not ten minutes ago.

 

“Barton.” There’s no undercurrent of hidden aggravation in Coulson’s tone, so Clint's pretty sure he's not being called in to help divert come worl-ending catastrophe, but Coulson doesn't call him to chat about the lastest drama playing out on reality television. Coulson probably asked Hill to let him know when Clint got back so that he could check in with Clint even if Coulson wasn’t his handler for this latest mission, Clint reasons. “You’re back.”

 

“Yes, sir. Just got in. I’m under orders to rest up before I report in for my debrief tomorrow.”

 

Coulson hums distractedly and Clint fights the urge to ask him if something’s wrong; Coulson would have lead with anything pressing. “After your debrief, swing by my apartment.”

 

“Sir?”

 

Clint can hear a faint sigh on Coulson’s end. “I need you to take a look at Lola.”

 

Clint lets out a huff of laughter that’s only tinged with a trace of the relief that settles over his mind. “What have you done to her now, sir? Just 'cause I can fix her back up, don’t mean you can keep treating her like you do,” Clint teases.

 

After a short pause, Coulson admits, “She’s been making odd sounds.”

 

“What kind of odd sounds?” Clint asks as he sinks back down onto his bed and leans back against the wall he uses as a headboard.

 

“The kind reminiscent of that time a dragon fell through a wormhole, landed in Central Park, and growled until we fed it a hotdog stand.”

 

Clint nods in understanding even though Coulson can't see him. “Does she rumble like a dragon when you tap the brakes?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Clint snorts. “That’d be the front breaks, sir.”

 

“I figured,” Coulson says, deadpan as ever, but Clint likes to imagine that Coulson lets himself roll his eyes when no one’s around to see him.

 

“How long’s she been grouchy?”

 

“A few weeks now.”

 

“A few _weeks_?” Clint asks, incredulous. Brakes that make those sounds are not the kind of car problem people should put off fixing. “You haven’t been driving her have you?”

 

“Of course not. I signed out a car from the motor pool.”

 

“Why didn’t you take her into the shop to get the brakes fixed?”

 

“I don’t trust them.”

 

“I vetted those mechanics personally, sir,” Clint assures him, well aware that his tone has slid into one of fond exasperation as they lapse into the familiar disagreement over proper auto-care.

 

Coulson is silent long enough that Clint’s eyes slip shut as he slowly lists down onto his side. Clint blinks back to awareness when Coulson clears his throat. “Lola doesn’t like it when anyone else touches her.”

 

“I’ll be by tomorrow night,” Clint says with a smirk. “You owe me dinner, sir.”

 

“Italian?”

 

Clint settles down onto his pillow and shifts around until he’s comfortably cocooned in his blankets. “Get extra garlic knots,” he orders before he hangs up and drops the phone back to the floor.


End file.
